POV: Marcella
The week between the phone call and our first meeting stretched endlessly, as if the universe had conspired to slow time to test my patience. I spent it preparing—not just the dress I would wear or the words I would speak, but fortifying every fragile corner of my resolve. Every moment was a rehearsal for survival.
The dress was deliberate: black, cut in a severe silhouette that spoke of mourning and defiance in equal measure. The restaurant was the sort of place where whispered conversations determined the fate of empires, the lighting low enough to turn secrets into shadows. My hair—blonde, smooth, unyielding—fell over my shoulders like silk against the dark fabric. But I hoped my eyes were the detail that would hold his attention: hazel, cool, and sharp enough to cut.
He was already there when I walked in, sitting with the stillness of a predator who doesn't need to move to remind you of its power. Tall. Broad. The kind of man whose presence changed the temperature of a room. His face looked carved from stone—handsome in the way storms are beautiful—but it was his eyes that stopped me. Dark coffee, unreadable, but sharp as glass. They scanned me slowly, deliberately, in a way that made my stomach tighten—not with fear, but with the grim awareness that I had stepped willingly into a cage.
"Marcella," he said, his voice low and rough, as though it had been tempered in smoke and gravel.
I gave him the smallest, most controlled smile I could manage. "Lorenzo. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting."
"The pleasure is all mine," he replied, though there was no pleasure in his tone. Only the faint curl of amusement in the way a cat might watch a mouse cross the floor. "A merger of our empires is… brilliant. Surprising your father's captains didn't think of it sooner."
I kept my chin high. "My father's captains are men bound by tradition, not results. They'd rather have died in a futile war than adapt. I choose to win."
That earned me a smile—thin, cold. "Winning is the only acceptable outcome. A woman after my own heart."
It almost made me laugh, the audacity of that lie. "My heart," I said quietly, "is mine. And it's not for sale. This is business. Nothing more."
His gaze didn't waver. "Every business transaction has a personal element," he said, the words dropping into the space between us like a stone into deep water. "Especially one involving marriage. You and I, Marcella—we're a partnership. In all things."
There it was. The first true warning.
"In business, yes," I answered, letting the air turn colder between us. "To the outside world, we'll be united. But the rest…" I let the silence do the work. "…is a necessary formality."
He chuckled, low and humorless. "A formality? You speak of marriage as though it's a contract with an expiration date. It's more than that. It's a bond. The foundation of our empire."
I leaned forward, meeting him at eye level. "And what's a promise in our world, Lorenzo? A weapon. A bargaining chip. I'm simply using the tools available to ensure my family survives."
"And I'm using mine to ensure my empire grows," he said, mirroring my lean, his gaze locking onto mine with a sharpness that felt like it could draw blood. "Two predators, circling. But don't mistake this, Marcella—I'm the one with the teeth."
The air between us thickened, alive with unspoken threats and strategies. Outside, the city lights blurred into meaningless shapes. In here, it was just him and me, playing a game where losing wasn't an option.
I let my lips curve, slow and deliberate. "Then let's hope those teeth don't bite the hand that feeds." The words tasted like risk—bitter and dangerous—but I'd swallowed worse before. For too long I'd been forced into the role of the dutiful woman. Not anymore. Not here. Not with him.
I was a predator, too.
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POV: Lorenzo
She walked in like she'd already decided the outcome of this meeting, wrapped in black that clung to her like both armor and mourning cloth. Blonde hair, sleek and sharp, framed a face carved from self-control. But it was her eyes—hazel, unflinching—that caught me. Cold, watchful, assessing.
She was playing a role, yes, but she was good at it. Too good. And yet… even the best masks slip. I was going to find the edges of hers.
When she told me her heart wasn't for sale, I felt something stir—not anger, not yet. Interest. A challenge. Most women in her position would have played docile, careful. She came at me with sharpened words.
I pushed back, letting my voice drop into a tone I knew could unsettle. "Especially one involving marriage. You and I, Marcella—we're a partnership. In all things."
Her refusal to let business bleed into the personal amused me, but I couldn't allow it. Control wasn't partial. If she kept walls up, she could use them against me. And I don't let anyone set the rules in my game.
She leaned in, gave me that quiet, measured threat about promises being weapons, and I couldn't help but admire her nerve. She was already trying to turn the board. But I'd been playing longer.
"Two predators, circling," I told her. "But I'm the one with the teeth."
I meant it. And I saw in her the spark of someone who might just be dangerous enough to try biting back. That spark was intoxicating.
When she said, Let's hope those teeth don't bite the hand that feeds, the corner of my mouth lifted. Reckless. Brave. Stupid. I liked it.
I shifted gears. "The wedding should be grand. A signal to the world. I'll have a private chef flown in from Italy. And the venue…" I paused for effect. "…the Vale estate."
I watched her absorb that. I could see the subtle tightening of her shoulders, the flicker in her gaze. That was the point—force her to stand on the ruins of her old life while stepping into mine.
The details were deliberate: a chef to flaunt wealth, a guest list designed to cut out the loyalists to her father's past. Every move is calculated to break down the old and usher in the new.
When the meeting ended, I rose, letting my shadow fall over her. She didn't shrink. Good. That meant the game would be interesting.
"Finalize the guest list," I said, letting a smile—slow and cold—settle on my face. "The honeymoon's already planned. We leave after the ceremony. A change of scenery is the best cure for… old habits."
She stayed still, chin lifted. But I could feel it—the way my words dug in, the way she measured the size of the cage she'd just stepped into.
The best part was, she thought she was the one doing the trapping.